A Different Choice
by Ligeila
Summary: Belladonna chooses to go with her husband. One-shot.


A Different Choice by Ligeila

She was driving. This was not the way things were supposed to be. They were supposed to have danced well into the night, supposed to have eaten more food that was wise, supposed to have spent the night... no. She was not going to think about that. She concentrated on the road; the sun was starting to rise. Driving was getting harder and she was getting tired. She glanced to the passenger seat and the man passed out on it. They needed to stop and rest, make a plan. Okay, maybe it was too soon for a plan but they needed a destination at least.

It was many miles before there was a sign promising a motel up ahead and even more miles before they actually reached it. She knew that it was going to be a faceless cheap place, one that she would never stop at if she had a choice. She didn't hesitate to stop now. She grabbed some cash and one of her ID's and checked in. It turned out that she hadn't needed an ID after all but it was faked anyway. She moved the car as close as she could to the door of their room before getting the bags and throwing these into the room and returning to the car. She opened the passenger door and hesitated - she didn't want to wake him, didn't want to move him and bring him back to the reality of pain but she had to. The second her hand touched his shoulder those red on black eyes snapped open and focused on her with a question in them.

"We're at a motel. I need to look at your wounds and you need a bed."

It was a testament to how much he had to be hurting that he didn't argue her reasoning. What made her really worried was that he let himself be supported when they walked to the room. She had expected him to struggle, to walk on his own. That he even didn't try meant that it was bad. It was a controlled collapse that had him lying on a bed, face pale and drawn but not one sound coming from his lips.

"Right, I'll go get a few essentials from a store. Be right back, okay?"

She got the faintest of nods for answer before she was out of the door and down the road heading for a gas station and an establishment that could be called a store next to it. Naturally they had no sterile gloves or wound sewing kits, but they had hard liquor and ordinary needles and thread and other things that had to do for now. It took a lot not to scream at the man before her to hurry up and get the hell out of her way. It took all of her control not to grab her gun and point it at the halfwit behind the register and shoot him just for being slow. She had to take several deep breaths to calm down before she entered the motel room, but he still picked up on her distress. Of course he would, she couldn't hide anything from him.

'They were slow.'

It was all she said, all she needed to say. He got it. Had the roles been reversed he would have fought for not blowing everyone in his way to the kingdom come. She took the bourbon from the bag opened it and unceremoniously handed it over. It was going to be easier if he could numb as much pain beforehand as he could. She washed her hands thoroughly, got water and towels ready and when she was set, took one last deep breath and sat on her husband's bedside. He had gone through half of the bottle already but there seemed to be no effect. She grabbed the bottle herself and took a deep gulp; he didn't comment.

She cut off his silk shirt and pants from his body with scissors. She had loved this shirt the moment she saw it; now it was going to the trash. Pity. There was a nasty cut on his left side - not so deep to have hurt anything vital but nasty and painful and in need of stitches. There were numerous cuts on his ribs, jabs that had aimed for the heart but had miraculously been avoided. And the worst of all wounds was a stab taken to the right thigh. By pure chance it had missed large blood vessels, but it was still deep and ugly. He was going to be off that leg for some time. But then there was the damage other assassins had had the time to do. Nothing visible, naturally, but she knew that Remy could barely raise his hands because of the torn shoulder tendons. The needle marks on him told her that there was poison running through him that caused more pain than should have been bearable. Still, he wasn't making a sound. Remy would see that as a weakness and right now, showing any would break him. She understood that.

She worked at the wounds methodically. This damage had been done by her own kin and she was angry for it. Even more anger rose in her when she thought that they all had expected her to sit back and let the torture happen. Well, she was going all in and putting all her chips on her new husband and if it turned out to be a losing hand then she was not going to regret her choice, or so she hoped. She knew, and Remy had told her, that she could not have both now. It was either her new husband or her family. Remy had expected her to go with the family. She didn't hold it against him, although it made her angry that Remy would think himself that much lower on her priority list. But then that had always been his way.

She happened to tug a little too sharply with the thread and Remy tensed. He didn't make a sound but it was enough to show her that she was exercising too much force.

"Désolé."

Remy laid his right hand on hers, it must have hurt like hell to move it, and when she lifted her eyes to his, he smiled. And by that single moment she knew that whatever came, she had made the right choice - here was a man who would love her through it all.

"Je t'aime."

She said it. They didn't say it nearly enough, but the occasion called for it and she was happy to say the words because for once it didn't feel like a weakness saying it out loud.

* * *

A/N: If you don't have the basic Gambit-story-reading French, I'll help you out :).

Désolé – sorry.

Je t'aime – I love you.


End file.
